


hell is a bloodstained desert, heaven is a battlefield

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:27:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Partial headcanon/possible canon backstory for Liquid Snake. Ideas taken from the MGS4 novel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hell is a bloodstained desert, heaven is a battlefield

It is the worst feeling in the world, the sick twist of your stomach when it hits you that you’ve been betrayed — and it’s even worse when the realization comes moments before the wooden door to your shithole apartment is kicked in, men in masks behind it.

You’ve been betrayed and you know it, can feel it in your bones and in the press of a gun barrel to your back, in the rope around your wrists, in the heat of the sun beating down on you and your captors.

Your contacts back home had been quiet, avoidant, and while you were still young and naive (for God’s sake, you were barely into your twenties, how could they do this to you?), you were not naive enough to refrain from being suspicious.

Rumors of a new contact, a better one, one close to the government and trusted, not some kid with close ties to the insurgents. It clicked right before they came —  you were a goodwill gesture, four years of service to the crown in Iraq and a whole life of it elsewhere rendered insignificant as soon as a greener pasture was sighted, tossed to the jackals in a trade for more information, better information.

Anger hit you then, anger and seething hatred so white-hot and powerful it nearly made you vomit with the strength of it. How dare they. How dare they do this to you, what gave them the right? Were you just a tool to them, a pawn to be used and discarded at will, a sacrifice to gain better pieces? Were all soldiers like that to them, those suits and ties sitting safe at home in cool offices while their toys bled and died in the hot sun? How fucking dare they take everything you’ve done, everything any soldier has done, and make it mean nothing as soon as they didn’t need you.

You could choke on the fury that was like lead in your veins, in your head. It was heavy and thick and hot and you knew that whatever would happen to you now, whatever they would do, you would survive. No matter what pain you went through, no matter what humiliation - you would survive. You would survive, if just to walk into one of their cold offices and spit in their faces. That’s what your survival would be. Spitting in their faces.  _I am strong. I am not your pawn. I will survive this, and I will not break no matter what. I will show you how a soldier lives, you bastards._

_I will live because you expect me to die. I will hate because you expect me to accept this. I will come back because you expect me to rot here._

_i will shatter your expectations of me because I am a soldier and I will not be your pawn. I will not let you win._

——————-

And you survived.

You withstood beatings, vicious, prolonged, and so severe your body felt like it was made solely of bruises, even remaining motionless agony to some part of you.

You withstood electric shocks, cattle prods, your captors doing anything in their power to break you, break your body and break your mind, causing pain you honestly didn’t think possible, until you screamed yourself voiceless.

You withstood bruises and broken bones, starvation and exposure until your skin was black-and-blue-and-angry-red. You withstood infection - your leg had been shot when you had been captured, and hung useless and bleeding with no treatment until you were delirious with fever and vomiting up bile because your stomach was empty.

You withstood it all and you never broke.

Oh, it hurt, and oh, you wanted to sometimes, but you held onto that anger and that hatred and let it feed your strength and repair the cracks in your will, forced yourself to stay firm and live through this.

Your body may have been broken, but your eyes never wavered, your eyes never lost their strength and so many times they threatened to carve them out, those pretty green eyes, but all you did was glare.

It seemed like a century before you were saved, it felt like a dream when they finally dragged out out of the cell, English swimming in your ears and even those rough American drawls sounded like a choir of angels, you were so grateful.

Two years, they said once you were coherent enough to talk to them, two years you spent in that place. They were amazed you survived that long, though you weren’t. (Well, maybe a little.) You’d known you would, never lost sight of hope through that anger.

It took months to recover, and though you were physically scarred, your body permanently marked by the experience - blond hair would take getting used to - you were alive. 

————-

You never went back to your home country, though - why would you? They had abandoned you to the desert, so you abandoned them.

You were without country and without master, and that is how you wanted it. 

Why would you want either, after all? It seemed to you that those in power cared little for their tools of warfare and violence - to them, a gun had the same value as the one holding it. Soldiers were not people, soldiers were chess pieces on a board that was beyond their control, marionettes on strings attached to careless puppeteers.

That was not something you would stand any longer.

Disillusionment was a bitter pill to swallow after twenty-two years of devoted service, but it was for the best.

You would not be controlled again, never again - your fate and your future was yours and yours alone to decide, no one else’s. You would fight for who you chose, and when you chose. That’s all.

And the only thing you would believe in is yourself - because your ordeal had proven that there was nothing else worth believing in. Heroes were lies and God was not there, or did not listen. So you believed in yourself, your power, and your will alone.

It was selfish, but you deserved a little selfishness. And it was really your only conceit - aside from that you fought to protect those like you, those who lived and died on the battlefield, those who grew up with guns in their hands and thrived on adrenaline and the smell of blood and gunpowder. 

You made friends and greased palms, used skills you didn’t know you had - charisma and charm, a friendly smile and understanding that won you more battles in this new war than a fist or a bullet.

It was hard work, but you found it more rewarding than you had expected, more satisfying in some strange way than simply fighting. Being your own master was far better than being someone else’s tool.

And while eventually you acquiesced, came to America to once again work for suits in cool offices, you knew better this time.

You would not be anyone’s pawn, and neither would your men.

You forged your own path, and God help the fool who tried to control you.


End file.
